


Weiße Meer

by livingplants



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, I have yet to add more tags and pairings as the story progresses!, M/M, WWII AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-04-21 11:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14283738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingplants/pseuds/livingplants
Summary: A fallen German soldier was left for dead on a dark winter eve's by his defeated squadron before being miraculously rescued by two kind war-fleeing cottage dwellers of unknown origin; a dangerous journey of deception, survival, and camaraderie ensues.They pick up a few friends along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

Leather-gloved hands weren’t the best bandages for profusely bleeding wounds, and soldier’s combat boots, as they turned out, weren't all that great at protecting toes from frostbite, either.  

The crippling cold bit at Gilbert's cheeks, though the helmet remained strapped to his head at the chin, a thankful cover from the harsh snow that fell from the deep, dark sky overhead. A hasty retreat in a clash with the Russian bastards - the name put a bad taste in his mouth - was resulted from an already humiliating enough defeat. It still rang in his ears, the gunshot that took down their captain in a numbing, muted blast, permanently leaving Gibert's jaw slack in horror, eyes widened... Though his reaction did not live long, for the bastards took their opponents' silence as their cue for a victorious sweep. 

So here he was, clad in uniform, leaving a trail of red in the snow as he trudged through the horrifically bleak landscape of the forest on what felt like the darkest point of the Eastern Front. Although he probably shouldn’t have peeled off his jacket earlier; the smell of the burn left from suffering nearby explosions made him feel sick, but he would have been better off with the extra thickness to protect himself from this hellish winter. 

A hopeless smirk curved the corner of his lips up, eyes half-lidded and his gait sluggish, limping; he'd sprained his ankle terribly and was shot in the arm, bullet lodged in clean, the metal slowly digging into his flesh with every step, and he could _feel_ it. It was bound to see to an infection within minutes, unless God himself stepped down to help Gilbert in his pitiful state. Almost in sick fashion, a chuckle bubbled up his chest before he stumbled and tripped over thick tree roots, meeting the ground with a loud thud -…   _Gott verdammt_.

The snow felt cool against his heated face. Whatever fire was happening on his visage, it felt like a mad fever. Maybe this was where he died. Before him blurred a picture of his family, his younger brother, then his father with his features scrunched in a constant disappointed scowl… … No, scratch that. _Fuck_ family, his brother was plenty. He never really amounted to anything to their father, anyway. 

Being sent straight to the Eastern Front had been a verdict that was decided upon without hesitation, now that he recalled again, and that was proof enough. The army had been expecting much more from him as well, being a _Beilschmidt_ , a name that carried generations of honorable medals; seeing as his swordsmanship no longer fared well in modern warfare and his lacking eyesight did no good in proper gun handling, however, he’d been shipped to the most bleak, grey place on the entire damn planet to join the men at the utmost lowest point of society, prisoners of war and criminals - the slightly higher rank in soldiership meant nothing, not at a place like this, and especially not where he ended up now.

They'd packaged kindly it in terms of all that 'honour to the nation' bullshit, but all Gilbert got out of it was an excuse to cover failing war efforts against the Russians. He would have snorted spitefully if not for the situation. 

On that note, it was no surprise either that he’d been abandoned by the rest of the troop. If there were any of them that remained alive, anyway. 

Nobody liked it out here, and while it was expected, he'd only been met with gruff attitude and cold instruction upon arrival: shoot, duck, reload, repeat.

Shoot, duck, reload, repeat.

_Shoot, duck, reload, repeat._

' _Lieutenant_ Beilschmidt' was a distasteful title that really only gave him the glory of walking at the front of the group and not much else. War glory was all made-up hogwash. It was only unfortunate that his little brother fell for the false prestige his father set them both up to grow into. 

Besides, he never had much of a penchant for the greater cause everyone at home seemed to talk about; he wasn't a very politically driven man. He was attracted to flashy strength and raw power, he was attracted to bright flags and loud music, he was attracted to the almost irrational, fiery passion of the past era that spoke of overthrown crowns, conquered lands and majestic horses riding into the horizon - not  _this_. Not ungraceful, senseless, indiscriminate murder behind metal barrels that happened to spit deadly bullets. Anyone could fire a gun, and it took real courage to brave into the field with nothing but a sword and shield.

Most would have mistaken him for the easily roused type, a typical German boy riled up by the sight of fancy guns, but quite frankly, he was already rather set apart by his physical appearance. First impressions not being very accurate was already a given. He sported a sharp visage, crimson eyes and pale, almost greyed hair - not from old age, but from some kind of apparent deformity at birth. Deformity or defect, something along those lines. If not for his family's name, he'd have otherwise been shipped off somewhere farther away, where they heard people were shot with needles and worked to the bone for being born different... But that was only a rumour. And if anything, he had already been worked to the bone on the front-lines anyway.

But he remembered now, truly, the pride of the past; the shock of the temperature seemed to jolt his memory. The dream of the Germany that his grandfather spoke of, the _Prussia_ that his grandmother often used to reminisce on those sunny summer afternoons. 

_T_ _hat_ was true glory and chivalry, triumph and pride. Such values only existed back when war was an honourable cause, battles were fought face to face and sword to sword, not from behind trenches like cowards; like the  _dogs_ of men who were decorated in medals and sat in tall chairs, moving others like pawns to be slain on the field.

Dignity came from taking up arms in the name of an empire built by honest strength, not for,  _never_ for this perverted mess of a nation.

The same smirk twisted into a a wide, empty smile as he brought his hand up, fingers digging into the snow that slowly piled up, eyes coming to a close as he pressed his fingernails into the soil and dug deep, as if it were the last thing that gave sensation to his frozen fingertips, nails caked with dry blood and tainted dark with dirt.

Gilbert wasn't a conspirator; he was no traitor of the state. In fact, he'd never actually done anything  _wrong_ , to what he knew, and probably didn't deserve being sent out so far. Perhaps he _shouldn't_ have burnt the little communist flyer he found in the woods if he'd have known the bastards were going to dispatch him to this abyss anyway.

Snippets of short memories bubbled up in his mind as the cold began to swallow him whole. 

Was this supposed to be when his life flashed before his eyes? 

The thin shirt that rested against his torso was thoroughly wet, beginning to freeze up, and his teeth began chattering; so this really was it. 

_A soft wind crafted fingers through his silver hair as the boy grinned, reaching down to pat the puppies on the head. “They don’t bite,” he urged the younger to reach out and do the same. “They’re real friendly!” The other giggled and held out a hand shyly._

So it was. 

_“Oi, that’s not how you do it!” The girl huffed, snatching the wooden sword from the boy. “Like this—!” The sword was brandished about as she hopped onto the rocks at the foot of the mountain. She grinned wide, holding it out in front of her, “Advance!” The boy laughed loudly, shouting something about girls not even being allowed in the army._

... Back when there was still hope for living.

_He scribbled furiously in his diary, describing in detail how his bird was chased into the forest by some neighborhood cat as his brows furrowed and hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but remained there. He’d definitely find that bird someday, and had equal hope that the small yellow fluff with wings would find his way back home. He named him Gilbird._

When he was younger, he always thought _awesome_ people never died, but war really killed childish positivism. Good-bye, he supposed, was all he could really make out with his trembling lips now, feeling his body growing blue and grey; he was reminded of his father's wardrobe. 

 

_Pale green eyes and soft blonde hair hovered before him, as if an angel that had descended. Warm, knitted material pressed softly against his cheek, a voice ringing out. Another voice echoed despite the rising winds, and his body was slowly lifted out of the snow. “What kind of man is this heavy?” was followed by, “If only he were as light as you, Mister.” An audible scoff, then silence. Just the sound of feet crunching against the snow, the wind howling, and the most foggy sight of dark trees, trees, and trees ahead._

 

Gilbert didn’t recall having a memory like that.

Then he faded.

 

* * *

 

  

“Don’t touch him, Elise. What if he’s diseased?”

“Then we must cure him!” 

“That’s not what I— _uuugh_."

 

The voice from farther away followed up with a loud groan; the one above him avidly ignored the grumbling and began to hum as what felt like cloth was slowly wrapped around his upper arm. Bandaging? Maybe he really had ended himself up in heaven. A heaven where war ceased to exist and angels cured him of his pains. 

Eyes slowly began to open as a girl with a sweet face and choppy blonde hair worked at the wound he remembered had been left by a gunshot. 

“You are awake!” She exclaimed quietly, a soft smile on her lips as she reached over to pat him on the head. The head Gilbert was pretty damn positive was _very dirty_. “Shush, stay asleep. You have not rested enough.” 

“ _It’s about time_.” 

The impatient voice from the back sounded again. Who the hell even was that? Gilbert much preferred this kid, who now that he looked at her, seemed a lot younger than he expected. 

He wondered why she was helping him - why they had pulled him out of the snow. Were they German as well? What were they doing here, so far out in the east? To what he knew, civilians weren’t to be traveling out so far. Or perhaps they were foreigners, helping him out of their kindness, but that didn’t explain how they spoke German - albeit with an accent. Maybe they were Austrian, or Swiss, or something. 

“I—“ Gilbert could hardly croak out his words. How awful. “Where am I—?”

She only smiled back and responded, “At our cottage. You should thank Mister Edelstein’s eyesight; a rare occurrence for it to notice _anything_ in the snow.”

“ _Hey_.” The voice from the back cleared its throat as it came closer; Gilbert had to crane his head down quite a bit to see, but a beautiful face, dark hair, suspenders and a shirt; an otherwise unfittingly feminine look on a man seemed to be pulled off quite well. “These eyeglasses cannot be compared to what I used to have.” The man wrinkled his nose in what seemed like distaste and looked down, “Hello. We saved you from the brink of your death, what do you have to offer?"

The blonde girl sighed and turned back, “We already talked about this, Mister.” She then looked back to Gilbert and smiled again, “There is no need to repay. We washed you up and I’ve already removed the bullet from your arm, sir. It will take some time to heal, as the infection frankly looks rather awful, but I’m assuming you don’t really have anywhere to go as of now?” 

Gilbert nodded slowly.

“You can stay here with us. We’re a bit lost too, you see…” Soft laughter sounded as she tied a ribbon with the cloth on Gilbert’s arm.

He must have really done something well in his past life to have been lucky enough to be saved like this, by this saint. Pretty face back there didn’t seem as hospitable, but made up for it somehow. “Thank you,” he managed again, “I couldn’t thank you e—"

“And here I thought Russians couldn’t speak German.” The voice from behind interjected sarcastically, a suspicious look in ' _M_ _ister Edelstein_ 's eyes as he tilted his head upwards. What was _his_  problem? If Gilbert wasn't so worn out, he'd have socked the bastard already. And what did he mean by that, anyway? Gilbert hadn't mentioned once about him being a Russian. Although he'd been stripped of his uniform, they surely must have recognised it. And it was already lucky for him to have been picked up by other Germans.

“I’m n—”

“Don’t you know, Mister? They teach German there.” The girl’s hand reached down to give Gilbert’s wrist a light squeeze, as if to keep him quiet. “That is why they are known for excellent espionage.” 

The other rolled his eyes, pushed his spectacles higher up his nose - how were they not pushed into his hair by now? - and turned to head someplace else. 

How _cocky_. 

With that, it only took a good few minutes of consciousness for Gilbert to script his impressions of the pair, a strange couple to come across. The girl seemed kind and hospitable - perhaps the two were siblings? Friends? Not lovers for sure, he could tell; blondie here was a child. The man in the back also looked far too young to be her father. But then again, he couldn’t tell much anyway, vision slightly blurred from the numbness that resulted in the aftermath of the wound treatment.

Blurred vision, however, hardly prevented him from becoming aware of the flickering and crackling of the fireplace behind him that left an orange tint on the rest of the room as he let his eyes roam and take the place in at last. A small cottage it was indeed, he could make out the entire place with one sweeping view. Furniture scattered, the wooden walls looked worn and old... It didn't feel like much of a permanent residence. 

After Specs (what Gilbert decided to nickname the man with the glasses, the brunet _arschloch_ ) seemed to leave his field of view, he considered asking the girl to get some answers to the questions that bubbled about in his mind, but with his body already exhausted from days of trekking and fighting on the frontline, Gilbert found himself slowly slipping out of consciousness. 

Whatever the blonde was saying now, his ears - having already grown rather deaf from the close proximity to loud gunshots and rattling bullets spitting out of metal barrels for the past God-knows-how-long - were no longer picking up much without intensely focusing on his hearing. 

So he let his poor soul rest once again, eyes rolling to the back of his head after he thought he mumbled a feeble ‘thanks’ to the girl, but his lips were much too cracked, much too blue to really be able to manage anything anymore; it was a wonder he had earlier.

He’d have to thank her ( _them_ , he supposed) properly later.

And boy, was this a story to put into his diary. Being saved by strangers in the middle of the woods in a foreign land was not a miracle that was easy to come by in this day and age, was it? 

Faded images of flapping yellow wings and ink blotches sent him to sweet rest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I am Palm, and this is an idea that I have had in my head for several years, and have never been able to properly write out due to lack of time and a driving force for me to write this out. I am excited to publish this, and I hope you all enjoy. I accept all sorts of suggestions and constructive criticism. I am also always open to learning more and getting to know all of you!
> 
> I do not own Hetalia, nor do I own its characters; but this idea belongs to me.
> 
> Thank you very much, and please enjoy my work.
> 
>  
> 
> And - -
> 
> Gott verdammt = God damn it.  
> Arschloch = asshole.  
> ... I do hope my future translations do not always turn out to primarily (only) contain curse words.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days or three, he wasn’t sure how long he was out for, but the warmth of the fireplace definitely had him knocked out for a considerable amount of time. It was almost as if his body was experiencing heat for the first time; even his room back at the base, from what he could remember, was colder than it was outside, and that was saying something. Not to even mention the old trenches. The thought of it sent sharp chills thrumming through his veins as he bit down on his trembling bottom lip.  

Before his eyes fluttered open, shaking hands reached down to pull up the thin fabric laid over him as a blanket, but sharp pain shot up his arm as he inhaled deeply with his teeth gritted tightly now to restrain himself as he brought one hand to run his fingertips over the bandage wrapped tightly around the throbbing wound.  

“I advise you avoid tampering with the dressing.” 

That voice. Gilbert then sat up slowly with the sudden prick of annoyance, and although it made him dizzy, it felt good to set his torso upright. It was then that he was able to properly see one of his supposed saviors. Glasses, hair half-combed back, a clean white shirt, dark slacks, and a very thin frame, almost noticeably so. He sat in what seemed like the sofa, covered in white fabric, with one leg crossed over the other and a tattered book in his hand. 

The prissy type. 

The other continued, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and glancing at Gilbert. “… It would be a hassle if Elise had to bind it up again because you mishandled it, after all.”  

That comment was best left ignored. If not for this context, and if he was dressed in something nicer, the brunet would have been the spitting image of a stereotypical posh snob, one of those who collected piano vinyls and attended film showings every Saturday. The kind of crowd the German would roll his eyes and brush past on his way down to the market back home.

_Back home_ … The crackling of the fireplace gave him a twang of discomforting nostalgia, bringing about a headache that seemed to have already been pounding, but was only brought to his attention now. Though most of his body was thawed, it seemed his brain took quite a bit of time to recover. 

There was a feeling Gilbert never knew how to label. Akin to the lump in one’s throat before shedding swallowed-back tears and the anxiety that would fester in one’s chest before being pushed to the frontline of an obviously hopeless battle, homesickness was a disgusting claw that grasped his heart and made it difficult to see straight. Although it was something he was ashamed to admit, he couldn’t help the immense wave triggered by the sound of the fire crackling from behind.

Which was easily dispelled within moments.

Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and muted out the sound of the loud gunshots that suddenly rang in his ears, shattering soft memories and replacing them with the traumatic scenes from the past few weeks. The inside of his head was a jail he wished to escape more often than not, given how stark it already was in reality, especially as of late. It was awful being imprisoned by something inescapable. 

When they said the Great War had affected men beyond expectations, leaving deep scars and dark stains that tainted their hearts and minds (and limbs, for some), Gilbert had always wondered how horrible it could get, being an admitted fanatic the Prussian tales of old that his grandfather would speak of and boast about.  

Who knew his _naivety_ could have been so disillusioned? War had shifted into a disgusting thing, and he could hardly see how any _glory_  could come about from something so senseless and immature. His heart twisted at the thought of his little brother, venerated as a rising star in the _Luftwaffe_. Vomit threatened to choke up his throat. 

… Snapping out of his thoughts at last, he blinked and registered what the other had said again, taking an audibly shaky breath. The girl from earlier, her name was Elise. Gilbert’s lips parted to speak before he was interrupted. 

“She went out to get firewood.” Now, that was something he wasn’t expecting. But then again, with a frame like that, this lanky guy didn’t seem like he’d be able to lift an axe over his head for his life. In fact, Gilbert would have been surprised to find that he was touched by this war at all! Though he knew he wasn’t one to judge based on appearance, having been through plenty in _that_  department himself. 

He also took another note in his mind: ‘Specs - interrupts often.’ 

“You two live here?” He coughed into his hand, voice cracked and hoarse. Damn. He hadn’t spoken in days, had he? His throat may as well have hardened up and cracked by now.

“No.” The man spoke tersely, distracted. The sound of a page flipping was audible. _Rude_. It seemed this bloke was going to be a lot more difficult to talk to - the girl was _far_ more hospitable. Gilbert easily took back what he said earlier about not judging by appearance… But he supposed there was no helping the fact that the _arschloch_ was the one who discovered him half-dead and in the snow. _God_ , if only it was easier to be thankful to his apparent life-saver. 

Nonetheless, he decided to wait until Elise returned. It didn’t seem like Specs wanted to talk much anyway.

The storm outside seemed to have calmed upon the realization that the howling sound of harsh winds were not apparent as they were last night, but Gilbert found himself wishing there was background noise to fill the terrible empty space that filled the room. 

It was clear enough that he and Specs didn’t get along. Considering Gilbert seemed to be in this for the long ride, as they were virtually stuck in the middle of nowhere together, they’d have to figure out something eventually.

Which was why the German could only be grateful that they had a third party. As if on cue, the wooden door in the corner creaked open as a small figure popped in, wooden planks heaved to her shoulders as she sighed, making her way across the room and dropping them by the fireplace. Rolled-up sleeves tumbled down to her wrists as she wiped across her forehead. 

He couldn’t help but blink and stare. It seemed even Ludwig almost had his manliness challenged. Elise was an interesting kid.

Chuckling, he brought his legs up to sit cross-legged on what seemed like a makeshift bed made from a table. “Elise, is it?”

The girl looked up, a soft smile on her lips as she knelt neatly on the floor, dress folding back at the knees, and began tossing a couple of the small planks into the fireplace. 

“That would be me. Mister Edelstein told you my name without introducing himself, didn’t he?” 

Right. Edelstein. That had been his name. His surname—? 

“Don’t worry about him. He just takes a bit to warm up.” Another smile. “I am Elise Vogel, it is a pleasure to meet you! I am happy to see that you are comfortable sitting up.” 

“Relatively,” Gilbert corrected, wincing as he shifted in his position. “It’s… Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt. Thank you for… Rescuing me.” He wasn’t quite sure how to put it, and felt awkward expressing his gratitude, reaching up to rub the back of his neck with the calloused hand on his good arm. 

“You’re welcome,” Specs interjected without lifting his eyes from the page. 

Brows furrowed as Gilbert now couldn’t help but scowl, bringing a leg up to prop his arm. “I wasn't talking to you, _Mister Edelstein_.” 

“Just call me Roderich,” his nose wrinkled as he looked up past the rims of his glasses briefly, “It sounds awful, the way you say it.” 

Gilbert’s fist was at the ready. 

“You must be parched, sir!” The girl gasped, hands suddenly clasped together as she stood before he could part his lips to speak. Fire already having been tended to, crackling behind her as she crossed the room, the sound of her shoes tapping lightly against the wooden planks of the floor cut through the tensity that’d brewed between the wounded soldier and this  _Roderich_.  

He was also lucky the third party knew to read the atmosphere. Despite the injury, anyone who knew Gilbert would have a good idea of how impulsively the man would throw a nasty punch, sharp knuckles and all.  

After having been graciously given a small portion of the well water they had been storing for one sip a day since a fortnight ago, he was advised to lay back down for the time being, that pressure on the wound would result in a slow recovery.

The man obliged easily. He had no reason to object to the kid who had only been a samaritan since he woke up in this place. Whatever could have happened if he’d been left to freeze to death, he pushed to the back of his mind. There was no purpose in pondering what could have been when he’d been so miraculously pulled from the storm. 

But one thing still had him perplexed: the fact that he’d been labelled a Russian. His clear-as-day, textbook-clear German would have been a dead giveaway, but Elise had so kindly covered it up with an easy excuse. Gilbert couldn’t care much for it, but it still had him wondering, and if not for the pleading sign she had given for him to not reveal himself, he would have forgotten it by now.  

Hadn’t he been wearing his uniform? Although solely left with his trousers and his white undershirt now, he was sure— ah. Right. He’d slipped out of his jacket himself before sinking into the sea of white, the snow that seemed _endless_...

After having spoken to each of them thus far, he could tell as much as where they came from, at the very least. When he first regained consciousness, his ears must have not been cleared from the rushing blood as much as they were now. Roderich had the hint of an Austrian, somewhat Bavarian accent - one of the kids Gilbert had known in his childhood spoke the same way. Hence the constant attitude he felt the other was speaking with. _Made sense_. 

Elise was just a slight bit more difficult to understand. Either a Swiss accent, or something else… He couldn’t tell, but he did know she refrained from speaking in her comfortable dialect. That much was obvious, and was appreciated on Gilbert’s part as well. Which led to an even bigger mystery. How the hell had the two even come across one another? Were they both fleeing from the war? The kid calling him ‘ _mister_ ’ already indicated the slightest bit of unfamiliarity. 

The thinking racked his brain. Although his impulsive spontaneity from time to time often gave off an impression of ignorance and immaturity to most, the German was by no means _stupid_. He hadn’t stumped his philosophy professor and ran out of chemistry material to study in school for nothing.  

He’d figure it out eventually. It didn’t seem much like this would be a short-term thing, especially not anymore, this chance encounter with the blondie and Specs. 

_A sudden, sharp snap._  

Crimson hues shifted to the source of the sound, and the sight of Roderich with the book slapped shut and tucked under his arm, he seemed to reach for a thick, dark coat that hung over the wooden chair, someplace in the cottage that was visible just out of the corner of his vision. 

“I’ll be by the door outside, Elise. It’s gotten terribly _stuffy_  in here.” He called as the door creaked open slowly and shut behind him. Gilbert let out a slow breath.  

The girl’s footsteps then tapped closer until she pulled up the chair next to the German, her hands politely folded in her lap and leaning close to inspect the bandages, the soft smile ever-present on her lips. “Are you feeling a little better now, sir?”  

Finally somebody he could speak to. “Yeah,” he groaned a bit as he shifted in his position. “Much better. Thanks again.”

“It is only natural to save somebody who needs help!” She spoke as if it were the most obvious thing. 

Gilbert wondered what the hell he must have done in his previous life to have deserved to be saved like this. Perhaps all the prayers had gotten through to the divine figures above that took pity on the half-dead albino getting swallowed by the snow. “Rare to find someone with a mindset like yours in the middle of a war like this.” The corner of his lips turned up into a quirked smile. 

“Mental fortitude is the key to survival, Mister Beilschmidt.” Elise smiled yet again, and the reminiscent glint that sparked in her gaze slowly fell. 

“Just ‘Gilbert'’s fine,” he mumbled, pulling the sheets over his legs again before he let his arm go limp, just over the edge of the table. What could the kid have gone through to be able to say something like that? 

"We met five months ago and have been on the run ever since, and hardly do we ever come across such a nice play to stay. Keeping this shelter to ourselves would only be selfish, wouldn’t it?” She reached down and pulled up a small, clear jar, one half-filled with a dark substance. Gilbert’s eyes widened for a moment as she began undoing his bandaging to reveal an awful unstitched cavity that dug deep into his arm surrounded by a ring of swollen skin and blood.  

Seeing it himself had Gilbert biting the inside of his cheek and turning the other way. _Fuck_. That looked _horrible_. It also seemed to throb more now that he knew what it actually looked like. 

“Hold still, please - this may hurt a little…” The kid dropped a bit of what must have been the drinking water from a tin lid onto the wound before sticking two fingers into the jar, dusting the powder into the gaping injury, and dabbing it around the reddened skin that’d risen in the foreboding appearance of a possibly growing infection. He hissed through his teeth, eyes clenched. That stung _bad_. At least when he’d gotten the shot, it felt instantaneous, and the cold numb the pain at the time. The fact that they had no tools to stitch it up made it worse, too, but he couldn’t complain. What even was that? Some sort of medicine?

“ _Gemeine Schafgarbe_ ,” she said quietly, carefully pressing the cork lid back onto the bottle and dropping it into the front pocket of her dress, “Yarrow. It helps to form a scab on your injury. It has already stopped much of the bleeding, but it must be refreshed for the first few days to stay effective.” 

He whistled when the other explained and finished applying the medicine, despite his pained expression; impressive. “You know your stuff, huh?”  

“Just a few things that help! My _Bruder_  always insisted I read his favourite books."

The blonde reached down, seeming to have torn some cloth from her dress, and straightened up to tightly dress the wound again. Gilbert decided then that he’d definitely figure out a way to repay her someday, somehow… It almost felt wrong to accept such kindness. 

“My little brother loves reading too,” he began, taking a look at the tied bandage at his arm before giving her a small smile. 

At the mention of his own brother, Elise beamed and slowly organized the things at her feet back into the tin can she seemed to carry around in her front pocket. “Then perhaps our brothers would get along, should they ever meet!” 

Laughing in response, he pressed his palm against the table and pushed himself to sit upright. A long exhale passed his lips as he managed to do so, turning to watch the other smooth the skirt of her dress and stand from her seat, narrowing her eyes at the fireplace, as if contemplating something.

… Finally the timing felt right, and his curiosity burned a hole into his mind. Temptation urged him to ask her how she ended up out here; how she met Specs, how the two managed to stay safe roaming grounds so close to the battlefields on the Eastern Front. A girl who cut logs and a man who looked as if he’d never had a stain on his shirt since the day he was born. The chances of those two meeting slowly began to seem just as unusual as how miraculously Gilbert had been found. 

But before he could part his lips to speak, his thoughts were interrupted by the wooden door that slammed open. 

Roderich’s eyes were wide with alarm, visage paled a dangerous amount, rosy at the cheeks from the cold wind and holding one foot half-in the cottage, as if ready to sprint for his life with the other.

_"They’re here."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not comprehend the definition of a well-paced story. I write where my mind goes...
> 
> \- 
> 
> _Gemeine Schafgarbe_ = Common yarrow.  
>  _Bruder_ = brother.  
>  _Luftwaffe_ = the German air force during WWII.


End file.
